


Insiders

by diycosmology



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diycosmology/pseuds/diycosmology
Summary: Nightbeat and Swerve form an uneasy alliance to uncover the universe’s greatest mystery—what? No, no, not the purpose of Rung’s alt mode, and definitely not if the Knights of Cybertron exist, but who's behind the Lost Light Insider, of course.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nightbeat & Swerve
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

Nightbeat sat at his desk in the comfortable darkness of his habsuite and tinkered away with a video file on his computer, the recording device he had hooked up whirring loudly every time he commanded it to show him the footage. The only thing to indicate how long he'd been doing this were the stars outside his window drifting ever so slightly from their initial positions in the reflections of his inactive monitors. He kept going back over a few seconds of the footage that had enraptured his attention, hoping that keeping his optics on the few pixels over there as opposed to the spot right next to them would reveal the answers he was looking for.

It had been hours and despite the meticulous shifting of his attention from tiny portion to tiny portion, he had nothing to show for it.

He wasn't bored, but very frustrated. So when incessant knocking began to hit his door, he was too irritated and far too engulfed in his studies to bother with whatever the person wanted—and there was practically no mystery in guessing who the persistent person in question was, either. When knocking garnered no response, they started buzzing his doorbell with as just as much enthusiasm. He groaned, got up from his desk, and opened the door, the brightness of the yellow-toned hallways an unwelcome contrast to the dark blue of his private world.

His suspicions as to who was on the other side were, unfortunately, correct. “Swerve.”

“Oh, good, I thought maybe I had the wrong habsuite number, but at least you’re in your room like I thought you’d be, I didn’t want to go looking all over the place. Anyways, heya, Beats, I just closed up the bar and even though we were giving away one free drink to anyone named Nightbeat today, you never showed. I mean, I had it announced on the intercom and everything! Did you disable it in your room or something? Is there a better way to reach you?”

“Everyone knows that the free drink thing you try to pull is the most transparent scam in the world, Swerve. Maybe if you gave away something more than a diluted shot I would have entertained your offer.”

Swerve gave a big, wide, conniving grin. “Ah, so you've heard the rumors. Good. Someone with a pulse on the gossip is exactly who I need. And besides, the reason I’m cheap with everyone else is so I have a healthy reserve to pay people like you to solve mysteries for me.”

“I want nothing to do with whatever ridiculous thing it is you’re trying to accomplish,” Nightbeat said.

“Really? Nothing? You didn’t even let me tell you what it is, and trust me, you're perfect for it. You’ve got to be the most secretly-up-in-everyone’s-business bot on this ship.”

Nightbeat refused to give the courtesy of a response and began reaching for his door’s control panel.

“Wait wait wait wait,” Swerve waved his hands, panicked. “I’m serious, Nightbeat! I need you to help! We both know you’re the only one who can find out who’s running the Lost Light Insider!”

Nightbeat paused, suddenly hesitant. As much as he wanted to return to his current project, and as much as he could hardly stand Swerve’s presence, his curiosity, as usual, got the best of him—the authorship of the gossip magazine was one of the Lost Light’s many mysteries that, while highly intriguing, weren’t very important, but Nightbeat currently had more than enough free time to pursue it. “You have leads?”

“Oh yeah,” Swerve nodded vigorously. “I've got a lead. I was eavesdropping on some customers in a corner booth earlier. They don’t understand the acoustics of the bar like I do.”

Beneath his visor, Nightbeat narrowed his eyes and weighed his options—perhaps it would be wise to give his current investigation a break and come back to it fresh later. Maybe, in some sick, sadistic way (Swerve was involved, after all), this mystery dropping itself off at his door like an abandoned protoform was the universe’s way of telling him he needed to take a freaking break.

Nightbeat hung his head in defeat. “Against my better judgment...I’m in.”

“Yes!” Swerve cheered, “So, do we start now, or what?”

“I’m ready if you’re ready, just let me get my things.”

⁂

The two of them paced up and down the Lost Light’s lengthy hallways as Swerve detailed what he knew. 

“So those two guys were talking about the latest issue even though it came out a while ago, and they were totally ragging on it, but then they said this one thing that really caught my attention, about how one of them may or may not contribute to it sometimes, in that sneaky instilling plausible deniability but the answer is super obvious way. Like, he agreed the whole thing was silly, but the guy he was talking got too critical for his tastes so he tried to lend it some credibility in the only way he could, I think. I could hardly believe it, who just says something like that?! Well—I mean, someone who doesn’t know the nosy bartender can hear them, obviously.”

“I'm stopping you there,” Nightbeat said, waving his magnifying glass in front of Swerve to halt his conversation, but not stop their walking. “Details, Swerve. I need names.”

“Uhhhh....right,” Swerve said, replaying the memory in his mind. “Well, I’m not too confident in my ability to put names to their faces, at least when I’m working. I try to learn people’s names, but I haven’t figured out everyone’s. Unless they open a tab there’s not really a reason I actually need to know that about them. And yeah, I know if they give me digital currency, which everyone does—who’s going to lug a bunch of coins around on a space adventure besides Cyclonus?—it’s got their name on it, but sneaking a peek at that after every transaction is harder than it sounds.”

“Well, you'll have to let me into your security feed, then.”

“My what?!”

“Your cameras...?”

“My cameras. Right. Look, Nightbeat, you're not gonna like this, but Brainstorm went and turned them into laser cannons when I had him upgrade my security. I know you're gonna be all like ‘ohh, Swerve, that’s so irresponsible', but if you ask me, it's way more responsible to stun and/or shoot a problem _before_ it happens, so there’s really no point in recording what never even has the chance to happen.”

Nightbeat rubbed his temples. “Okay. Fine. Describe them, then.”

“Well, that's the thing there, too. You've gotta understand how many people sit in the corner booth on a given day because it's so secluded but you can see the whole bar. It's prime real estate for the refined people-watcher. There must've been ten people total in that booth yesterday, it all starts to blur together...”

Nightbeat in his frustration had already changed their course from aimless wandering to the bar itself without informing Swerve, so the minibot was surprised when he finally finished listening to himself talk to be facing its facade.

Nightbeat entered a passcode into the lock’s keypad, but it refused his attempt.

“Um, it's—” Swerve began, but was stopped when Nightbeat’s second attempt worked. “—okay, how did you do that? Why not just ask me what it is? Should I be concerned?”

“I don’t want to be standing here all day while you explain the life story that informs why you picked that particular code. The keys get worn down the more they’re pressed, and you press them almost every day,” Nightbeat said, inviting himself into Swerve's domain, examining each table on one wall as he strode in. “They really should replace them with those digital ones that shuffle the order of the keys each time, but having them old school makes my life easier, so I'll never suggest it.”

“Like having ten of those locks on your own door doesn’t scream ‘I don’t trust these’? Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe I should go even older school and just get a lock and key—but then, I bet you’d just pick it. You’re terrifying. You know that, right?”

Nightbeat rolled his eyes as he studied the bar’s interior, as if staring at it long enough it might make it tell him what he wanted to know. Pointing to the corner table embedded beside the counter, he asked, “Is this the table?”

“No, no, I can’t hear anything that goes on in that one. Wish I could though, cause Atomizer and Getaway are constantly talking to people there and, whatever they’re up to, it looks really interesting.” Swerve said, then pointed to the corner tables flanking the entrance. “It’s those ones I can hear, the left one is the one where what I was telling you about went down.”

“I see,” Nightbeat said, noting the tabletop’s damage that was visible even from across the room. He hopped the counter, landing as near-silently as a 20-foot tall metallic life form could on the other side. He crouched down, examining the shelves the counter concealed until he found the object he had come for—Swerves business datapad. It, like the door, prompted him for a passcode.

Swerve considered hopping over too, but he knew he was too short and clumsy to pull it off, and joined Nightbeat via the counter’s gate.

The datapad chirped in approval. “A word of advice because I don't want you to make a fool of yourself—use different passcodes for different devices. Imagine if I was someone with malicious intent.”

“Yeah, yeah...”

“And, also, 0043? Really? That's just your room number.”

“What? It’s easy to remember!”

“And easy to guess,” Nightbeat muttered as he slid through the datapads contents, its screen illuminating his face. 

“What are you looking at? Receipts?” Swerve asked, stretching himself to try to catch a glimpse of the screen.

“Yeah,” Nightbeat said, still vigorously swiping his thumb. “Maybe _you_ don't remember everyone who sat there, but your computer does. There was a spill there yesterday, wasn't there? So someone at that table ordered something corrosive to the metal your place is made out of.”

“Oh, you noticed the patch job? That's why I'm free today, ‘cause it's still curing and I don’t want anyone getting their handprints in it. Yeah, this place isn’t made out of the best materials, they obviously outfitted some kind of storage room last minute to drive up the price. But it was free, so whatever. The more intense drinks might destroy our surroundings, but our insides are made of tougher stuff, so I’m pretty sure it’s fine. No complaints from the medibay so far. I just advertise them as either your best drink or your last, and that renders _them_ enticing and _me_ innocent. Or at least as innocent as you can get in that situation.”

“ _Which_ drinks?” Nightbeat asked, not bothering to entertain Swerve’s dark humor, his finger hovering above the screen.

“Ummm...” Swerve thought, recalling his menu. “I only served one type yesterday, I’m pretty sure. I didn’t offer any of the other hard ones cause I wanted people to try it. It's a recipe I just came up with, so it doesn't have a name yet.” He took the datapad to enter its just-too-long-to-dictate serial number and handed it back. “Sorry that I can’t remember. Maybe you can narrow down that list by getting all psychoanalytical and asking something like, ‘who here is both curious enough to be willing to try a potentially lethal concoction and has a penchant for secluding themselves in the corner for maximum perceived privacy?”

Nightbeat took Swerve’s suggestion and stared down the list of names, considering every bit of trivia he knew about them. “Someone like Grapple. He always sits in the back corner of Megatron’s class, and joining a class led by the most lethal person alive in the first place demonstrates an almost stupid commitment to satiating curiosity. That class has not been without incident.”

Swerve snapped his fingers in excitement. “Yes! Grapple! Big orangish-yellow guy, right? The crane? Yeah, I remember now. Definitely him.”

“Well then, a visit is in order.”

⁂

Nightbeat knew trying to get Swerve to leave him alone would be a fruitless effort, and Swerve's multiplicity of loose connections would likely come in handy, besides. They marched on in search of Grapple in silence—for a while.

“Mystery’s a good genre. I like it. Not my most favorite, but it can be really fun sometimes.” Swerve chimed in.

“Excuse me?”

“Like, movies, TV, y’know.”

Nightbeat didn’t comment.

“Do you ever watch mysteries?” Swerve asked.

“Occasionally.”

Swerve seemed strangely disappointed that he had found some common ground with Nightbeat, but he turned his outward mood around quickly. “I bet you play along, trying to guess the culprit. Oh man, that's gotta be adorable.” 

“That's the way they’re intended to be engaged with, so yes, of course I do...” Nightbeat said, his tone evident that he wasn’t sure what Swerve thought was so novel about that.

They turned a corner to a major vein in the Lost Light’s network of passageways. Swerve put himself right behind Nightbeat, using his slightly more imposing stature to protect him from oncoming traffic. “It's just so hard for me to picture the ever-unorthodox Nightbeat actually following any guidelines, is all.”

“Hmm.” Nightbeat grunted—while he was certainly aware of his reputation for being lateral and offbeat, he also knew the countless times he did, in fact, work within the box, and the countless amount of times such compliance had gone unnoticed.

“What’s it like solving a real-life mystery?” Swerve asked. “I've done it a few times, but that’s nothing compared to you.”

Nightbeat served the question back to Swerve. “Tell me yours.”

“Oh, well,” Swerve scratched his cheek guard as he tried to recall. “The most recent one was the cybercrosis thing, I think, when I deciphered Pharma’s notes which lead to Tailgate getting cured. That was cool. Lots of nerves up until I figured it out, but then it was such a high. And Tailgate’s still around!” Swerve grinned. “That's the best part.”

Nightbeat could have taken his turn answering and springboarded off of the prompt for days, detailing every last thing he so loved about the process, but he’d rather not if Swerve was the one asking. “You already know what it’s like. Why don't you tell me what it really is you want to know?”

Swerve’s visor narrowed, impressed. “Ohhhh, you’re good. Fine. It's just that all of our friends are friends, right? We see each other around, but I hardly know anything about you. It's frustrating! So I figured the best way to get to know you would be to tail you doing your favorite thing.”

“The mysterious shtick is intentional.”

“Oh, come on. Now that you go and say something like that it makes me want to try even harder. Like, tell me this: doesn’t being some sort of hot-shot super-genius who can figure out anything and everything eventually get boring to a depressing degree?”

“There have been plenty of things that have stumped me. Some I go back to and eventually untangle. Some I’ll never be able to. You would know that if you were paying attention when we met the Necrobot instead of freaking out and taking pictures.”  
“Oh yeah?” Swerve narrowed his visor. “I don’t believe that for a second. Unless you can come up with some examples, I remain unconvinced.”

Nightbeat grinned, knowing Swerve would like his answer. “Well, that whole ‘Swearth’ incident comes to mind…”

Swerve’s visor beamed and he was so thrilled he just stopped walking, to which Nightbeat paused after a second, too. “Whoa, you’re right! Ha! Haha! I totally stumped you!” after a bit of contented chuckling, he continued. “Well, unintentionally. But I’ll take it.”

Nightbeat started walking again, and Swerve followed, having a peppier disposition than before. 

“Where are we going, anyway? Do you have any idea at all where Grapple could possibly be?”

“I know for certain he’ll be at Megatron’s class tomorrow, and I may just corner him there, but it might be tricky to approach him in that setting, and there’s no reason to keep you waiting, either. I reckon he's either in his room or Hoist’s workshop.”

“Right. Yeah, that sounds right. I don’t know, I don’t really know the guy. Okay, what about, when we get there, how are we gonna handle this?” Swerve asked.

“What do you mean?”

“While, you know, Are we gonna good-cop-bad-cop it, or maybe a bit of a Mulder and Scully believer-skeptic angle, where you pretend you don't buy that Grapple’s actually involved or that the Insider actually exists. Or I can be the Scully, if you want. Or—”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, man, do I have a show to show you, then...”

“That’s okay, really. That first idea wasn't too bad.” Nightbeat admitted. “Although Grapple doesn't seem like the most walled-off person. I’m not sure we’ll have to resort to tactics to get something out of him.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, you’re probably right.” Swerve said as they finally arrived at their destination.

Hoist had left the door to his workshop open to entice passersby while he tinkered away at whatever project he had strewn about his table inside, waving warmly to the duo when they entered but not seeming too interested in why they had shown up until they walked up to him looking for answers.

“You wouldn't happen to know where Grapple is, would you?” Nightbeat asked, just as interested in the project before him as the question he had asked.

Hoist stopped fiddling with the pile of junk he was trying to give form, using his scalpel to gesture. “Oh, that old fool is a late riser, but he did have some unfinished business in here he wanted to get back to right away. What time is it?”

Swerve checked the time on his communicator and then subspaced it away again. “Second cycle exactly.”

“He's a late riser, but a punctual one.” Hoist nodded, confident. “Give it a few seconds…”

“Speak of the frikkin’ Uncreator...” Swerve said in a near whisper, astounded by the timing as, just like Hoist had said he would, Grapple rolled in, transformed to bipedality, and grabbed his unfinished project from a cubby in the wall. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he turned around, caught off guard by Nightbeat and Swerve of all people being in his workspace that was usually populated by regulars and no one else, not to mention how shocking it was that the two of them were voluntarily next to each other.

The cross between confusion and what looked like preemptive guilt that crossed Grapple's face aroused Nightbeat’s suspicions. “What are you working on? A light fixture, maybe?”

“Yes, exactly, it’s a prototype I've been working for the medical team to make the medibay feel more welcoming, and it’s already overdue—we have to work fast, who can say how long this moment of peace in the chaos that is our quest will last. What brings you two here?”

“Another quest of sorts.” Nightbeat gestured to Grapple as he spoke to him. “One we need your help with.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Grapple said, setting his project aside on a table and awaiting instructions.

“Surely you keep up with the shipwide news,” Nightbeat said, waiting for Grapple to nod before continuing. “And you've heard of the Lost Light Insider? It's not officially endorsed, but their efforts to squash it have been laughable. Rumor has it—”

“No.” Grapple shook his head. “I have no involvement, I’m merely a reader.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

Grapple frowned. “Go on, then…”

“Rumor has it that you’re involved.”

“I already said no.”

“You gave yourself away there, Grapple. It's no use lying to me. That column—‘Collateral Damage’, which details how and why parts of the ship get destroyed, that's yours, isn't it? Your anonymity is safe, I promise—We’ll swear on it if you'd like.”

“Like anyone in their right mind would trust Swerve with a secret…” Grapple said.

“Hey, you don’t know me!”

“I have ways of keeping him quiet. Hear me out, Grapple. Contributors aren't who we’re after, it's whoever's in charge.”

Of course, Nightbeat did want to know absolutely everything, but hunting down the head would probably reveal more with fewer steps than aiming for anyone lower on the ladder, especially since he didn’t yet know to what extent contributors were aware of their peers’ identities. 

“If anything happened to any of our editorial, I wouldn't be able to live with myself, and besides that, my secrecy is oathbound.”

“You took an _oath_ ? For a _gossip magazine_?” Nightbeat said, shocked. “You must be joking. What do you do if you break it, chain you to the bottom of the oil reservoir?”

“By the glittering Matrix, no!” Grapple said, holding his hand to his chest, offended. “You get sentenced to community service—which I'd be happy to do, of course, except I don't need the threat of punishment to convince me to keep my word and I'm busy with renovations at the moment.”

“Community service?” Nightbeat cocked his head, perplexed. “When the whole operation is a community disservice? What, are you all repenting for your sin, or is the idea of helping people the ultimate punishment?”

“Of course not. We opted for the type of punishment that helps people the most because we’re decent people. I'd think someone like you would laud a group so dedicated to exposing the truth.”

“Ha!” Nightbeat couldn't help but laugh. “I won't argue that some of your reporting has been top-notch...but for the most part, it’s an opinionated mess that leaves plenty to be desired.”

Grapple took a defiant seat at the table he’d set his project on. “Okay, that's the final straw. I'm not taking any more insults or offering any more information, so be on your way. I have work to do.”

“Grapple. I'm trying to help Swerve here bring that magazine to justice on behalf of everyone it’s smeared the name of.” Nightbeat was making assumptions, but Swerve didn’t refute them. “Some people’s reputations were completely obliterated, and for what?”

Grapple furrowed his brow, almost growling as he spoke. “What people? People like _Megatron_? Is that what this is about? Don't think I haven't noticed you sucking up to that mass murderer in class—but then, you do that to anyone who praises your insatiable ego, don’t you? I'd think a former intelligence agent of all people would know all the fine details of every unspeakable atrocity that happened by his command.”

“You're in his class too, genius.”

“I've taken nearly every class that's been offered! I'm willing to listen to people I disagree with… unlike _you_ , apparently. Do you know how many people at home on Cybertron would give their t-cog for the opportunity to just sit down and have a conversation with the one who ruined everything not just once, but over a semester?”

Grapple was obviously upset and Nightbeat wanted to take a few steps back in their conversation to get back to the point he was trying for. “Grapple, I—”

Grapple held up his hand to silence Nightbeat and made himself busy. Nightbeat tried to reason with him, but Grapple had completely stopped replying. Nightbeat hadn't earned his reputation as an ace hostage negotiator by giving up just because someone stopped talking, but this situation was different. Grapple had already dropped a crumb for Nightbeat to follow, but the opportunity to mine him for more information might never present itself in the future.

He kept trying for tediously long minutes on end, but Grapple refused to acknowledge him. Hoist was used to Grapple’s moods and didn’t let it distract him from his project, but Swerve was less used to the display and his hands weren’t so busy, making his discomfort grow.

Eventually, Nightbeat’s pity for forcing Swerve to wait overcame his persistence. “I _will_ be on my way, then. Goodbye, Grapple.” 

“Oh, uh—” Swerve stammered, struggling to choose between his instinct to follow Nightbeat in his walking off and wanting to say something to Grapple. He ultimately decided on following his investigative partner but lingered in the doorway for a second, and he appeared to be saying something—quietly apologizing for Nightbeat, no doubt, Nightbeat imagined. It would be more unusual to see Swerve not saying anything.

Swerve quickly caught up to him after leaving the doorway. “That was really something. You guys completely exploded at each other out of nowhere.”

“We have class together tomorrow…” Nightbeat groaned, dreading the future.

“Then just skip it? If you do that, we can crack this case even quicker, and with everything we just learned, I’m even more excited than when we started. The Insiders sound intense!”

“But I was so excited for the next class. Each one is better than the last...”

“You could ask Nautica for her notes. She takes great notes. And besides, Grapple might not even show up! I can totally see him blowing it off to finish his project, can’t you?”

Nightbeat groaned again. There was nothing that could keep his stubborn self from showing up tomorrow, even if he knew a painfully awkward situation most likely awaited him. “I'm going, and that's that. I'll be fine.”

“If you say so. It’s your funeral. Also—what was with the high and mighty do-it-all-in-the-name-of-justice shtick back there?”

Nightbeat didn’t know what to say. Usually, his clientele thought they were doing the right thing even if it was in some roundabout way, but now he wondered if Swerve was, at least in this instance, driven by the same unadulterated curiosity that he often was. “Are you suggesting you’re an even less stellar role model than I assumed?”

“Uh, no, it’s just weird to hear words coming out of my mouth that...didn’t. Considering how many do, that’s a hard feat to pull off. To be honest, I kinda like the mag. It’s fun. This is just between you and me, but the whole reason I started the bar was for people to let their guards down and tell me incriminating secrets, which works sometimes, but reading the Insider is enlightening in regards to how much actually goes on around here. But whatever. What's the next step in our investigation?”

“Another interrogation. But first, I'm going to need a break to recover from being yelled at before I get yelled at again.” Nightbeat stopped, pressing his pointer finger at the bridge of Swerve’s nose to halt him too, as a warning. “ _Alone_. I’ll meet you after class.”

“Aw, okay, fine. And come on, _most_ of the time you're pretty good at not pressing people's buttons. I'm sure whoever it is wont yell at you.”

“No, no, I'm absolutely certain that they will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Nightbeat had always shown up to class a little bit early to refresh himself on the topics explored previously before they moved on. He took his place in the front row—his assigned seat, and the only assigned seat, that was designated after Megatron had chastised him for walking out in search of something after having an epiphany one too many times. Between that and the time when Megatron had forced his way into Nightbeat’s personal space to declare his utter failure of not quickly enough deducing why most of the crew had gone missing (as if a quantum duplicate of their ship that had been determined to override their paradoxical existence was an obvious answer), he was still shaken that Grapple accused him of sucking up to their teacher just because he thought that second chances should be unconditional.

The rest of the class poured in, some others early, most perfectly on time, including the instructor. Nightbeat waved to Nautica and her posse from across the room but said nothing to them.

His new apparent nemesis, Grapple, had taken his usual seat in the back row, directly behind him, so there was no hope of sneaking a glance to see if anything about his body language revealed his mood. As time went on, Nightbeat couldn't help but feel like that wasn’t necessary, and that Grapple had been boring holes in the back of his helmet with a vindictive stare. 

Whether real or imagined it complicated his ability to focus. It was difficult trying to maintain two trains of thought—one for the class, one for whatever might be going on in Grapple’s mind, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering about it. As time went the guilt caught up to him. Earlier, Swerve had effectively told him that he didn’t have any particular emotional investment in the case and was just being nosy, but Grapple clearly did, and he’d rather apologize than enable, even if it meant having to subsequently apologize to Swerve for calling off the investigation—the last resort, as he did truly want to lift the veil on the magazine, but one he was willing to go to.

After they were dismissed, he stopped in front of Grapple's row, blocking his way out. “Let me apologize for yesterday.” He said, not letting on to how much it had been tormenting him since it happened. “What I said was harsh, and you were right.”

“You are excused.” Grapple flipped his hand both to dismiss Nightbeat’s attempt to start a dialogue and to urge him to step aside. “You don't have to flatter me or stop investigating or whatever it was you were planning on doing. If we are a reliable publication we should have nothing to hide. Our secrecy is so we don’t get special treatment from people, we want the candid truth. I’m sure there are some of my peers who are using it to protect themselves from the consequences of the more vicious things they’ve said, but they’re big bots, they can handle it. I still won't be one who can help you beyond this favor, but sleuth to your spark’s content.”

“Oh, I—” Nightbeat stopped, not expecting Grapple to yield so easily. He felt lighter knowing he didn’t have to make the compromise he was envisioning, and a flurry of possible explanations for Grapple's sudden change of spark flooded his processor, leaving him speechless for a second. “I—thank you very much for that.”

“It’s no problem.” Grapple said, taking advantage of Nightbeat’s flustered state to gently move him out of the way. Nightbeat kept his optics affixed to him as he left the room, perplexed.

He supposed that Grapple's reasoning was sound, logically speaking, but something else didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t have much familiarity with Grapple to reference, but if Hoist’s bar stories could be trusted (and he was almost certain they could be) he knew that he was comically stubborn and based on anecdotes that originated from the playwright (and classmate) Crosscut, he was an  _ embarrassingly  _ bad actor. What Nightbeat had witnessed last night—the die-hard investment and defensiveness over his comrade’s reputations—there was no faking that. Sure, people could be unpredictable, but it just didn't make sense that he would completely flip his stance on something he cared so much about overnight—unless he had finished his lighting fixture and no longer feared community service, but based on his tedious perfectionism and refusal to tangibly help Nightbeat with what he said was okay to look into, that was unlikely.

Nightbeat left the classroom with an inkling of what was really afoot, and it did not sit well with him, but he knew to wait for more to reveal himself before he let it get to him. In the hall, he almost managed to make it past the first intersection without interruption.

Swerve nearly collided with him as he turned the corner. “There you are! I expected to see you way further down. Did you stay in class for a few minutes or something?”

“I was patching things up with Grapple. He seemed to accept my apology.”

“Oh, cool, good, good.” Swerve nodded, seeming satisfied that the drama had been dealt with quickly. “So where are we off to next? Interrogating someone, right? Who?”

If Swerve’s mere presence wasn't annoying enough, Nightbeat winced at the mention of ‘we’, but surrendered into letting him tag along, knowing that trying to get him to leave him alone would be an argument that never ended. “I can't just  _ tell _ you that, Swerve. Pay attention to our surroundings and consider this your first lesson in the art of investigation.” And with that, he took the lead, navigating their way through the ship without pointing out anything to his partner.

The task kept Swerve occupied nearly the entire trip, keener on keeping his visor wide for clues than pestering Nightbeat to confirm or deny his half-baked assumptions—though, of course, there were a few of those peppered in, too, but not to an unbearable degree. He gladly took the one-sided, easy-to-tune-out commentary on things that were blindingly obvious to him over Swerve trying to chat him up.

It wasn’t until they had made it to the heart of the ship where the medibay and other emergency services were hosted that Swerve put it all together—unimpressive, but expected, and he did narrow it down to which facility they’d come for before they were standing right in front of it, thanks to Nightbeat’s parting comment from the day before. Nightbeat congratulated him without much enthusiasm as they approached the eternally open door of the fire department office.

Inside the cramped interior, Siren had his boots kicked up on his desk and was reclining in his chair, lost in a datapad that recounted Cybertronian myth and legend. He noticed the guests once they let themselves in and put it on his desk, quickly correcting his seating position to a more professional one. “Hi!” he exclaimed, his hoarse and raspy voice too big for the tiny room he spent the majority of his time in. “How can I help you?”

The fact that he could be heard from the hallways would have been unsettling if the emergency wing of the ship had been more populated, but without any emergencies lately, it wasn't an issue—if anyone came too close, Nightbeat would hear it. 

Before getting to what they had really come for, Nightbeat read the labeled spine of the now inactive datapad. “Studying, are you?”

“Yeah,” Siren nodded enthusiastically. “I thought maybe there would be something that could help us find the Knights of Cybertron in there!”

“I wouldn't count on it—that's almost the 3,000th edition.” Nightbeat pointed to the easy-to-miss engraving on the bottom. Swerve had never noticed how soft-spoken Nightbeat was until he was pitted against Siren—they were like night and day. “Any truth to those legends would have been edited to the galaxy’s edge and back by now for them to keep cranking those out.”

“Oh, darn...” Siren checked the engraving for himself, then chucked the datapad onto the shelf behind the desk. “That’s okay! It was just a time killer until Brainstorm explodes something, anyway!”

“He hasn't already?” Swerve asked, surprised.

“He had class.” Nightbeat reminded them, arms crossed. “Give it time.”

“Oohhh, wait,” Swerve snapped his fingers in hopes it would help him finish his thought (out loud, of course), “You're  _ Siren _ Siren! You did the intercom announcements for a bit, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, indeed I did!”

Swerve turned to Nightbeat. “That must be what you thought was weird about what Grapple said, right? You think that’s the community service he had to do or something?”

“What’s this about…?” Siren smiled, not sure whether to be excited or afraid of being swept up in the others’ antics.

Nightbeat was relieved that Swerve had started pulling his investigative weight without prompting. “We’re investigating the Lost Light Insider. We questioned Grapple, who told us that oathbreakers are made to do community service, and you of all people doing the announcements struck me as an anomaly that could be related.”

“Close, but not quite! Me and the psychiatrist, Wrong—? What’s his name?” Siren paused, trying to recall the name of one of the people he saw most often. He shook his head, deciding it wasn’t really relevant. “There's only one on board, you know who I’m talking about. We decided that really putting myself out there like that would be a good step towards self-acceptance, which is the whole reason I came on this trip, so I pretty much  _ had _ to do it. And I’m glad I did!” He smiled, prideful. “So yeah, sorry, but you're wrong there.”

“I see,” Nightbeat said, disgruntled.

“Everyone misses occasionally.” Swerve tried to shrug off Nightbeat’s disappointment for him. “But also, everyone knows Siren did the announcements back in season  _ one _ , and the Insider wasn’t established until the  _ second _ launch. Why’d you think there was a correlation there?”

Nightbeat’s cool and collected facade was almost shattered by his subsurface embarrassment making itself apparent. “People don’t always specify time frames when they talk about the past, and I disconnected the intercom in my room as soon as I boarded because it tends to disturb me mid-thought…”

“You could’ve just asked a veteran Lost Lighter,” Swerve said, pointing to himself.

“I didn’t want to bother or be bothered by you.”

Siren felt both that the conversation was getting off-track, and that they had interrupted him before he had gotten to the good part. “But! I  _ was _ an Insider for a bit before they kicked me out cause they found out I was telling Ring about it. But how could I not? It’s a complicated situation I got myself into!”

Talking about one’s therapeutic journey, secret occupation, or anything else one might not want the entire population to know in the presence of Swerve was generally a bad idea, but the fact that Siren was falling victim to his habit of oversharing even after it had gotten him in hot water in the very scenario he was recounting seemed to go over his head.

Nightbeat was thankful he had managed to end up in the right place even if it was a wrong assumption that had gotten them there. “Being fire chief might leave plenty of time for the Insider, but not much freedom of movement to search for stories, so I take it you weren’t a writer. Editor, then?”

“Yep! Deputy editor-in-chief, technically, but I do all the work! My office is a real snoozefest. Don’t tell Mags, but I used to get so bored I’d doze off sometimes. So when the second launch came I was so happy about the Lost Light Insider cause I wanted to know what was going on while I was waiting around all day! I wrote in and asked if I could help out somehow, cause getting the scoop right away totally beats having to wait like everyone else, and they had the perfect job for me!”

The first thing Nightbeat internally noted about that was that they didn’t care if their head editor even knew about what was being written about on a factual level, so long as they could be relied on to ensure the magazine’s content gelled stylistically and tighten up technical errors. Distasteful, in his opinion, but it tracked. “The editor-in-chief didn’t want to officially relinquish their position?”

“Nope! He’s a real perfectionist and always wants the final say, but his main job ended up being more demanding than he thought it’d be!”

“You wouldn't happen to know who took over after your departure, would you? Or who it was before you, for that matter?”

“I don’t know my successor for sure, but I have a feeling it went back to the editor-in-chief, cause it doesn’t feel too different and ever since I got booted, people who I thought I got along with because we used to be secret coworkers started blowing me off. My buddies—well,  _ former _ buddies—in s—”

All three of the room’s occupants turned to the room's monitor as the attention-catching fire alarm interrupted Siren, an emergency icon blinking in a panic over Brainstorm’s lab.

Siren went through a procedural ritual of button pressing to summon his fellow firefighters to the location at lightning speed, his speech frantic and with more of his trademark volume as he affixed the firefighting equipment mounted on the wall by the door to what became the roof of his vehicle mode. “Sorry, duty calls! Seeya!”

The two watched as he transformed and drove off, his blaring sirens and flashing lights fading away as he made his way down the hall. Nightbeat immediately started poking around the room in case it revealed anything. Swerve figured it would be best to leave the dirty work to the expert and sat in the guest chair. Eventually, he leaned on the chair's armrest, doing his best to look thoughtful. “He didn’t even say who the founder was, but he’s obviously aware of who it is. Now that’s what I really wanna know.”

Nightbeat removed datapads from their places on the shelves to see if anything was hidden behind them, scrutinizing the scratch marks on the shelves through his magnifying glass. “He’s clearly too scatterbrained for details unless there’s immediate danger. Needs the panic to think straight. He’d never make it as an editor if the Insider didn’t offer the thrill of possibly getting caught.”

“But he did kinda sorta give us something, even if he got cut off. His buddies in ‘s’? What do you think he was gonna say?”

“Either staff or security,” Nightbeat said with confidence as he put Siren’s Rodimus Star back in its place on his desk, deciding that the office held nothing of note. “I can't think in a place like this. Let’s split.”

They walked down the hallway, their destination this time was a mental landmark they were hoping to arrive at as opposed to a physical location. “He’s  _ loud _ . There’s not a lot of bots who could stand prolonged enough exposure to become friends with him in the first place.” Nightbeat offered.

“Someone in staff and/or security who can stand a guy like that…” Swerve mused. “My money’s on Blaster or Groove. They’re both big fans of loud music, I mean, their names are  _ Blaster _ and  _ Groove _ , for crying out loud. And have you seen either of them hang out with him lately? I sure haven’t, and I see them all the time. Especially Groove. They used to come to my place in little grab-bag assortments of staffers after their shifts, but I don’t think Siren’s been one of ‘em for a while.”

Nightbeat considered Swerve’s proposition against his theories before speaking. “I think you’re right.”

“Well? Do you think both of them are involved, or what?”

“Blaster’s a communications officer, so mitigating gossip is expected of him on some level, but that position might offer certain privileges for an Insider. And like you said, Groove is always hitting up social functions where gossip festers and getting first-hand accounts of widely discussed events when he shows up as security to de-escalate them... Not to mention that they’re both leader types who are humble enough to resign from a side gig in favor of their real jobs but so confident in their own abilities they’d prefer to hold on to it if they could. Considering that angle, I don’t just think either of them might be Insiders, I think one of them is the very person we’re looking for.”

“I buy that. But if they’re equally likely, then who are we going to hit up first for more clues?”

“I’d rather question them at the same time. I have a feeling that whichever one of them it may be would be easier to peg if they couldn’t warn the other of what we’re up to.”

“Wha—you have a  _ feeling _ ?!” Swerve asked in disbelief as if cold and calculating Nightbeat were so cold and calculating that there was no room for anything else, even though he had been more upbeat and cheerful on the Lost Light where Swerve could bear witness to him than anywhere else in his entire life—after the Dead Universe fiasco, he was glad just to still  _ have _ a life. “I thought you people were supposed to operate on facts and logic and evidence and stuff like that.”

“A feeling based on what we know so far. Just like how I assumed one of them is the editor. With enough practice, you too can one day use patterns you’ve been observing your whole life to find intuitive shortcuts instead of painstakingly overthinking every step. I know what I’m doing, Swerve.”

Swerve glared at Nightbeat for a moment before turning away, wondering if he could somehow spin the fact that while Nightbeat had been living as a detective for millions of years, he’d read and watched millions of years worth of detective stories. He decided that would be far from convincing, or at least not to a degree he cared to defend. “Fine. What’s your plan?”

It was then that Swerve realized Nightbeat had been leading him back to his bar when he thought they had just been wandering. Nightbeat opened the door, which Swerve still found unsettling, and let himself in, judging if it was suitable for his scheme. “Who can say no to a lock-in with complimentary drinks and ulterior motives?”

⁂

After he and Swerve had retreated to their respective habsuites to rest up for what they anticipated was the final step in their plan, Nightbeat casually went over notes for other cases of his, making little edits here and there to keep his mental algorithms well-exercised, occasionally staring up at the starry abyss outside his window for long periods when his work was being difficult until he was interrupted by a notification ping—the new issue of the Lost Light Insider had just been released. Typically, it was a read he kept on the back burner for when he didn’t feel up for something more challenging (which was rarely), but tonight, it was a priority.

Grapple’s column was as well-delivered as ever, this time doing a “best of” retrospective on disasters past and the measures that had been taken afterward to rebuild and reinvent what was lost since there had been an absence of destruction lately. He wondered if being complimented on it to his face had any bearing on his spirit not being deterred by a lack of happenings.

Most of the magazine was as expected: genuinely interesting points were made and quickly drowned in vapid clutter. There were plenty of candid photos that one had to admit were generally well-framed with an artistic edge, even if the subjects of them might never know they had been taken, much less distributed, and mixed opinions on everything and everyone in and around the ship from both in-house writers and contributing readers. If this is what was print-worthy, Nightbeat pitied whoever went through the slush pile. He shuddered at the thought that what was before him served as a major source of news regarding the status of the ship and its quest to Cybertronians stationed elsewhere in the world.

It inspired a strange feeling in him now knowing that some of the same Autobots who the ship’s public trusted to ensure their safety had also been tattling and rumor-mongering the very individuals they served behind their backs… although he did wonder if he, existing on the periphery of a captain-orbiting group often referred to as “the inner circle”, who had made more than their fair share of questionable choices, was really in any position to judge.

He reread the issue several times, and each time, only one article caught his attention. To anyone else, it wouldn’t seem too out of place, and an article about his investigation into the Insider making it into the Insider itself when he’d spoken to people who were involved was far from unexpected. 

Rather, it was the writing style that piqued his interest. Generally, writers for the Insider were encouraged to use humor and wit and make it their own—its consistent entertaining nature, even if it was usually at someone’s expense, was half the reason it had become a mainstay in the first place. But this piece, in particular, seemed like it had been stripped of that charming armor to its curt and clinical endoskeleton, completely devoid of whatever personality it once had, far too brief and to-the-point to feel engaging. It wasn’t the first time Nightbeat had noticed the dryness of whoever that contributor may have been, but it was the first time it felt significant.

A few likely possibilities came to mind: this was just someone who didn’t have a knack for writing. It was strange, then, that they  _ would _ continue to write even after being criticized more than once in the Insider itself by its readers, but any given creative clique might keep hangars-on around if it meant not losing a friend or acquaintance who offered something other than text that was critical to the operation. It was also possible that this was someone the editor had a serious grudge against, and perhaps both their devoided style and continuing contributions were the product of a never-ending power struggle.

Nightbeat trudged through memories of the past few months for anything that might back him up and found a few that fit. Combined with everything else that had aroused his suspicions lately, he had come to a conclusion he was almost certain of but would have to wait put to the test until later the next day.


End file.
